A
mechanical malfunction changed my life. One of those infrequent
annoyances the average person puts off fixing because it's no big
deal. Two times in a six month period my garage door opener failed to
properly open. Would rise about three feet and stop, so I'd get out
of my car and manually raise like I'd done for years prior to my
lazy-man upgrade.

Both
glitches occurred when I came home from work. Five in the afternoon,
so I'd lift it, park, push the wall button to close, step inside,
pour my drink, collapse in my easy chair and nap prior to dinner.
Glitch fixing postponed until forgotten -- until next occurrence.

That
just happened to be on a night when I'd decided to head for the
casino and throw twenty bucks at a nickel slot machine. Well, I
managed to find a bandit which played my contribution nearly four
hours. This put me home around midnight, and of course, that's when
door opener decided to execute screw up number three.

My
neighborhood's not necessarily rough, but my day job takes me to some
that are, so I carry a Louisville Slugger on my back floorboard. Not
a full-size baseball bat. One from my Little League career, about
two-and-a-half-feet long. Engraved name Tony Oliva, if you care to
figure out my age. Anyway, night-time, full moon, and people had been
acting squirrelly all day (one jerk at the casino asked me if I had a
light, and then chastised me for smoking, just one example), so I
grabbed my bat before exiting to raise my garage door.

Bending
to lift, I heard a rustling past the corner of my garage. A split
second later, my eyes spied a pair of big-ass hairy feet with
long-ass gnarly nails streaking directly toward me. A frontal
assault. Quickly, I rose to vertical, my left hand flinging open the
door while my right hand whirled a full-circle, roundhouse swing with
my Louisville Slugger.

The
blunt end of my bat cracked the beastly skull right where forehead
meets scalp. Thing is though, I really couldn't tell much difference
between its forehead and scalp. One was just as hairy as the other.
As the momentarily-stunned oddity stood wobbling with eyes crossed,
my inspection confirmed the beast a werewolf, or to be precise, its
dangling wanger confirmed him a wolfman.

As
his eyes began to uncross and I anticipated him resuming attack-mode,
I took pity upon him. Actually, I didn't want blood on my driveway,
so rather than swinging at a high heater and finishing him with
another skull-crack, I stepped to my left, grasped my bat with both
hands and swung at a fat, juicy, down-the-middle fast ball. His
middle. A whack to the center of his gut, but since I seemed to
foul-tip on that swing, I gave him another. It arrived a split second
after his paw clutched his middle. Poor paw! It took the blunt of my
blow, and while he held it in front of his face for inspection I
pounded him three more times in rapid succession.

My
triple-swing assault finally put him down. With his good paw now on
his belly and the beaten paw reaching for me, he fell to his knees.

"Move
your paw or I'll crack it, too," I offered him the choice, and
apparently, amazingly, he understood. Withdrew his undamaged paw.
Surrendered his stomach, and with one swing at a low ball, I dropped
him for good. He lay on his side, groaning with a graveled growl,
both paws clutching his middle while his drawn-up, human-like legs
(knee caps and all) twitched.

Well,
I'd say my garage door opener problem paled in comparison to this.
Logic said for me to drag him aside, park my car, close the door and
call the police. Option two would be all of the above, minus calling
the police, and simply leave him to go about his business. Option
three would be to bash his head bloody, put an end to his miserable
life, and then call the police.

None
of these seemed viable to me. Oddly enough, he struck a chord of
sympathy in me. I mean, it wasn't his fault he had to go through this
shit once a month. Whatever werewolf bit him was to blame for that.
What if he had a family somewhere wondering what happened to him?
Think of their hand and/or paw-ringing. Where is he? When will he
come home? It would be like having an indoor pet that slipped out the
front door when you're signing for a postal package. Takes off
running down the street, and despite hours of looking you never see
your beloved animal again. Spend the rest of your days heart-brokenly
imagining its fate. Innumerable, awful possibilities.

Been
there, done that, and to this day it sickens me to think of it.

Okay,
now the confession. Despite his ferocious face featuring deadly
fangs, his over-sized paws and feet with their flesh-shredding claws,
everything in between kinda turned me on. Fur be damned, his compact
torso and the way he'd taken my Slugger to his hard gut made my dick
twitch. Besides, I wanted to see what the wolfman looked like when
the wolf went away and he was all man. Naked man!

So,
I dragged him into my garage, stood over him with my ball bat. "Roll
onto your back and expose your belly," I ordered, knowing this
is what a dog does when he's surrendering the fight. BAM! I
pulverized his gut as soon as he moved his paws, which caused him to
again clutch his middle and roll onto his side. He was primed for
binding.

Towing
chains hanging on my walls would be heavy enough, I reckoned, so I
grabbed one with a hook attached to the last chain link. Five
revolutions around his ankles took all the chain and I hooked it to
itself. Left him there while I parked my car.

Once
the garage door was closed, I told him, "I'm keeping you here
tonight. You'll be safe."

He
acknowledged with a nodding of his head.

"Are
you hungry?" I thought he might say (if he could talk) that he
felt like he was going to puke, what with the pounding I gave him. It
warmed my heart that he again nodded his head in the affirmative.
"I'll be right back," I spoke with a loving lilt. "And
if you mess with anything in my garage I'll rearrange your face with
my Slugger," I spoke as though I were the attacking beast
and he the besieged victim.

I
hated to part with the beef roast thawing in my fridge and scheduled
for my crock pot next morning, but figured it would fill him past the
point of wanting to eat me, not that I planned on giving him that
chance. He eagerly rose onto his knees to devour the bloody beef.
Gone in two minutes, and I got him a big bowl of water.

"You
can sleep in my car," I informed him while he lapped. "But
since I can't trust the animal in you, I'll chain you to it."
Opening both back doors to my sedan, I instructed, "Now, get in
and lay on your back." While he obeyed, moving on his paws and
knees and wiggling his way atop my back seat, I grabbed my other tow
chain and hook. "Put your paws together and give them to me."

His
wrists hung off the seat beyond his head, and I wrapped them two
revolutions before tossing the excess chain beneath my car's
undercarriage far enough so I could reach it from the other side.
Circling the back of my car, I retrieved the chain. Hooked it to the
chain wrapping his ankles and secured him for the night. Next, I gave
him a warning. "My bedroom's right above you, and I will hear if
you try to escape. Doing so will damage my car and I will be major
pissed. Understand?" I waved my bat above his face, and he
nodded agreement. "Speaking of pissed. Do you need to go?"
Again he nodded, and this time with urgency.

Damn
me. Should have thought of this earlier. How could I accommodate him?
Hospital bottle. Yes. I had saved mine from my appendectomy thirty
years prior. Took me a few minutes to remember where I'd packed it,
but I did and dug it out of the box. Brought it to the garage.
Stuffed his dick into the bottle's mouth and held it for him to pee.

Which
brings me to an interesting observation. "Stuffed" is
appropriate, because I actually was forced to force his thing through
the opening of that urinal bottle. Sucker was a good four inches
round. About the size of my fist, with seven or eight inches of
length to go with it. Wolfy's cock was scarier than Wolfy himself, so
once I had the bottle attached I left it there and told him,
"Goodnight."

A
growl and a grunt his reply, and then a nearly-human-sounding sigh as
he released his stream.

I
turned off the roof light of my car. Left the garage overhead light
on. The first thing I wanted to see in the morning was his big and
hairy, or perhaps, lily-white and human, feet.

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I was born a legitimate love child. Accidentally conceived and purposely excreted as my brothers and sisters neared the age of puberty. Seems it took me forever to get there. Seems the time since has passed in no time. My genitals are male and functional. My mind is clear and adaptable to whatever pleases me, or whoever graces me. My anus is strictly for exits, and voices tell me that only by making others happy can I myself be. I am trying. I write.

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Posts titled Jasper Say pertain to my Fecal Philosophy, explained in post on 06-30-11 . Posts titled JJ Say are quotes from in-progress writing projects... words which will be in a book / ebook when the writing becomes a story. Posts titled JJ Said are quotes taken from my published books. I will also post items of interest I've stumbled across on the www.